


The Stages of John H Watson

by nat_scribbles



Series: The Stages Series [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 05:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nat_scribbles/pseuds/nat_scribbles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson at different times during his friendship with Sherlock Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Stages of John H Watson

**Author's Note:**

> As always, the characters aren't mine, I'm just having fun with them, and English isn't my first language, please excuse the mistakes.

At the beginning, John finds himself staring at Sherlock, trying to figure out what the consulting detective will do next. Will it be a new case? A brand new exciting case. A new opportunity to run and jump and feel the pain in his lungs and legs and heart and just feel painfully alive again. God, yes, please. Will it be another experiment in the kitchen? Maybe something smelly or that stains. Possibly something poisonous or dangerous. Most likely something highly unhygienic inside the fridge. Experiments are a bit not good, but at least Sherlock understands now that he will have to clean up every single mess that he makes. Still, John never gets it right. Sherlock seems to do everything out of the blue, but John knows better. It isn’t a case, or an experiment. Sherlock brings him tea. Apology, then. He must have done something. So maybe it was an experiment after all. John checks the air for weird smells, looks at Sherlock’s attire searching for holes and burns… At the beginning, John finds himself thinking in Sherlock’s voice, and it doesn’t feel nearly as weird as it should.

 

***

 

Sometimes, when John stares at Sherlock, he stares at his body. He has memorized his hair: the dark chocolate colour, almost black, that shines glossy and slightly red in the sun; his crazy curls and waves, that look like he just got out of bed, but John knows better; the way his fringe bounces when he bounces off the armchair before storming out, coat in his hand, to solve a case. He has memorized the way his shoulders move when he puts on the coat, running down the stairs. He has memorized the way he stands when he plays the violin: how his arm and wrist move with the bow; how the agile fingers touch the strings at impossible speeds; how his waist turns when he plays slow songs and stretches his arm, slowly pulling the bow away from his body and then, without letting the sound die, twists back and glides the bow the other way, his wrist bent, the sound stretching. He has memorized how still he is when he is thinking, with his hands under his jaw and his eyes shut, his eyelashes casting shadows upon his cheekbones. He has memorized how he looks, when he washes the Petri dishes, how he has to bend because the sink is too low, how that makes his surprisingly round and _plush_  arse look… Sometimes, when John stares at Sherlock, he can’t help but feeling aroused, and he doesn’t find it weird at all.

 

***

 

Lately, when John thinks of Sherlock, he feels empty. He doesn’t remember his life before Sherlock. His nightmares are getting confused: the soldiers’ blood, Sherlock’s blood, desert, pavement. He doesn’t remember the London that wasn’t a battlefield. London isn’t a battlefield anymore, just a field after the battle: empty, destroyed,  _silent_. He wants to go back to before the battlefield, to the battlefield itself. Anything but this silence. Sherlock’s grave is silent. No more miracles for John. He doesn’t cry, he can’t cry. He is like the sun. The sun burns and humans can see its light and feel its heat, but they can’t look at it directly or stand too long under it. Not even Mycroft can look at John in the eye; his pain hurts him too much. John is like the sun. He can’t cry, his pain can’t be washed away with tears, but the rest of the world looks at him, they will cry for him. Lately, even when he doesn’t think of Sherlock, John has become the empty shell of a man.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last summer and it's the first thing I ever wrote for this fandom. I hope you guys liked it! :)


End file.
